Official Business
by brista
Summary: Set immediately after The Accidental Occidental Conception. Just a little behind-the-scenes filler piece. The Middleman has unfinished business with his consultant. MM/Roxy, rated M for adult concepts.


**Title:** Official Business

**Author:** brista

**Rating: **R.

**Summary:** Set immediately after The Accidental Occidental Conception. Just a little behind-the-scenes filler piece. The Middleman has unfinished business with his consultant. MM/Roxy

**Author's Notes:** Comments/critiques/etc., welcome. **_This contains 'adult concepts' so if you aren't interested or shouldn't be here, turn back now. _**Remember, kids: you can't unsee things.  
**  
****Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters, no infringement is intended, etc., etc.

* * *

"So, M.M." She closes the office door and turns around to face him, hands on her hips. "What are you doing here?"

He smiles. She used to say he smiled like an altar boy. She always said she hated it when he smiled like an altar boy, always said she'd have to wipe that innocent smile off his face. Then she'd drop to her knees and – he blinks and tries to erase the memory. That's never going to happen, he has to admit.

He watches the way she leans against the door, the way the top two buttons on her top are undone exposing just a hint of lace, the way her black skirt is taut against her thighs. She catches his eyes and he's pretty sure he's blushing like a neon sign. He's immediately sorry and about to apologize for staring at her when she snaps, "I don't have all day, you know." She's always so impatient.

"Just...dropping off your payment for helping out with the Terracotta Warrior the other day." He reaches into his jacket and pulls an envelope out of the inner pocket. She pushes herself off of the wall and his eyes are drawn to the way her hips sashay from side to side as she walks towards him.

It's late and the building is empty except for the two of them. The clicks of her heels on the tiled floor seem amplified in the cold silence. It makes his heart pound faster and he wants to fill the room with small talk. "It's all there," he says. "Small bills as usual."

She raises an eyebrow and doesn't bother opening the envelope before tossing it on the desk behind him. "Why don't you tell me why you're really here?"

He's nervous. His tongue darts out and he licks his lips. His throat feels constricted. "Well, I don't kn—" and he stops himself because he has to admit that's a flimsy lie. She's like a truth bomb.

He smiles again, hoping to cover up for the way he's having trouble breathing normally, and his eyes dart around the office, avoiding her gaze, trying to find something to latch onto besides that black lace peeking over her shirt. "Have – ah, have you redecorated?" He gestures towards a shelf. "I don't remember that vase with the –"

"You aren't here to talk about interior decorating." She doesn't ask him. She doesn't need to ask him.

He thinks this is probably a huge mistake. She takes another step toward him and he knows this is truly a mistake of epic proportions. But when he saw her the other day and the way she – a wicked grin lights up her face as she watches him squirm. He stops dodging her gaze and he lands on her icy blue eyes. Something runs through him like electric. She sees right through him.

"No, I don't suppose I am," he finally admits. He remembers that smile.

And then she's moving, closing the gap between their bodies, pressing her lips against his. His body tenses at the sudden touch of another person, a side-effect of all the violence and self-defense he deals with daily. She's rough in her movements just like he remembers, rough and demanding – his arms wrap around her body, pulling her closer against him. It's so inappropriate and he shouldn't be here.

He didn't even activate Code 86 and he can't even imagine the disapproving look on Ida's face or the comments he'll get from her. He wishes he could just stop thinking – stop thinking – stop thinking – he wishes he could push all of the practical thoughts out of his brain. He tries to concentrate on – oh, mmm, the way she – she's amazing – but he's – she's got him pinned him against the desk. It's hot in the quiet office and then he feels her hands start to unbuckle his belt and he tries to catch his breath but he can't –

He pulls away from her lips and turns her around, switching places so she's the one trapped against the mahogany desk. He just needs a little space. Everything always happens so fast with her and he can't decide what's causing his panic – the idea of something happening with her again or the idea of it being over too soon.

He just needs a little room and he'll start thinking properly. Then he'll be able to make the proper decision and leave before he does something he'll regret. He tries to ignore the way her thigh presses against his, hopes she doesn't notice the way his pants are tight and constricting against him. "I'm not here to – for – ahem – I'm on official business." He clears his throat and backs away from her. His face is burning. "Uniform and all…"

He turns around to face a mirror on the wall and reaches up to adjust his black tie. He tries not to notice the way his face is flushed or how heavy he's breathing. She moves behind him and slinks an arm around him, turning him around to face her.

She pulls his hands away from the tie and he watches while she unties the knot and unbuttons the top two buttons on his white dress shirt. Her lips graze softly against his, a whisper of a kiss. "Now you can breathe." Her hand rests on his cheek, cool against his hot skin.

He takes a deep breath and nods. Son of a fish, how he's missed her. He doesn't make much time for a life outside of HQ and the last time he touched her – touched any woman, for that matter – was months ago.

"Rox…" Her wicked grin is back and he remembers how good it was with her. But evil never sleeps, he reminds himself. He just has to tell her good night and then he's going to walk out of Famouse and head home for a very, very cold shower. As he tries to formulate his escape plan, she watches him, eyes narrowed, planning her next move.

"I really have to –" She ignores him, grabs his lips between her teeth and he kisses back – oh, gosh, the way she – and then he grabs her. He can't get enough of her. Never enough. She inhales sharply as he presses into her and then he forgets – he's a Middleman – she bites his neck and – "Oh, god, Rox."

He can feel her grin against his skin. It's a game they play – she makes it her mission to see how many curse words she can pull from his lips and his task is to make her moan his name as many times as possible.

There are no losers in this game.

It's the only time he ever has a real name and he thinks it's undoubtedly the best way to hear it, no two ways about it. One of her hands is under his Eisenhower jacket, grabbing at his tucked-in shirt. Her other hand clutches the back of her neck, nails digging into his skin, and he presses his lips into hers – never enough – she's amazing –

"Missed you," she purrs into his ear, tickling his ear with her mouth, turning his legs to Jell-O. All the apprehension he had is gone when she slides a hand into his pants pocket and strokes him through the fabric. She steps out of her black heels, dropping three inches down so he has to bend further to reach her mouth.

It barely registers that she has unbuttoned the closures on his green jacket until she pulls it off of him. "Can't believe you wear this thing," she murmurs as the detested jacket falls forgotten to the ground. He pinches her ear between his teeth in response.

The memories he has tried to forget flash through his mind, vivid and sticky, her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into her, her arched back, his name tumbling from her mouth. He can almost feel her sharp fingernails running down his sweaty bare back, branding him for a week after. She's reformed but she knows every trick in the book.

"Roxy…" He wants to sound authoritative, but her name comes out half-whisper, half-moan against her lips. He knows he should ignore the kisses she presses against his neck, the way she moves her body against his, the way her hands travel down his chest, smoothly unbuttoning each button on his dress shirt as they go. She pulls the shirt off of him then grabs the bottom of his green undershirt and pulls it over his head, dropping it to a pile on the floor.

He grabs her, one hand gripping her arm, the other around her waist. She stops breathing for a second and he looks her dead in the eye. This time, she's the one who blinks first. He presses his lips against her ear.

"I'm here on official business to thank you personally on behalf of the organization for your assistance," and he's surprised at the voice that comes out of his mouth, gruff like he doesn't remember. He's surprised at the way he grabs her, tight like he might leave marks.

"You could have sent flowers," she says and he kisses her because he can't think of anything better to say. The cool air in the office blows against his bare chest, already warm with sweat, and he needs to feel her skin against his.

He tries to multitask and unbutton her top but the buttons are impossibly tiny and she doesn't seem to notice his struggle. He blindly paws at the tiny buttons with his hands that won't work – useless opposable thumbs! – and then her hands cover his. Her mouth breaks away from his.

"Relax," she says and her expert fingers unbutton the blouse, sending it sliding off her shoulders. She wriggles out of the skirt and he lifts her up, turning so her back is pressed against the wall, his hands under her ass. Her bare legs clench around him and one of her hands runs through his hair, grabbing a handful and pulling as he nips her collarbone with his teeth.

"Leave a mark," she says. Her voice is breathy and light, so different from the commanding tone she usually speaks in. He dots the soft curve of her breasts with kisses, following the edge of her lacy bra with his lips. He hates to mar her perfect skin – her nails dig into the back of his neck – she hisses his name as he bites.

The score is one to one: tied.

He loves hearing his name come out of her mouth in ragged breathes. He found out early on that she was always the one making someone else's fantasy come true, that most of the men she had been with were more concerned about their own enjoyment than hers. He loves being the one to make her feel this way.

Just as he feels like he's starting to lose balance, she pulls his face up to hers and nods. The look on her face is the one he's been trying to forget for months now -- her eyes glazed over with want for him. She twists out of his arms and as her feet touch the floor, she grabs his belt buckle and unsnaps it. He puts one hand on the wall behind her to steady himself.

He isn't sure if he's breathing or not but when she pulls the belt off of him, her knuckles skim his abdomen and he sighs, his breath as shaky as he feels. She runs a finger down the zipper of his pants and he's already hard at the light touch.

He's missed her touch, the way she always seems to know exactly what do, where to touch, how to kiss – her fingers hook around the waistband of his pants and pull them down but they get caught around his thighs.

"Hang on," he mumbles. He had forgotten about the Middlegun strapped around his thigh and the handheld laser launcher around his ankle. He unsnaps the holsters and weapons from his body and sets them down on her desk.

"And I thought you were just happy to see me," she says, her mouth turning upward into a grin as she tackles him, tugging his pants and boxers off and pulling him down to the ground. They tumble to the ground, their lips never separating.

She lands on top of his chest, straddling him between her legs. He unhooks her bra and it's discarded as he cups her soft breast in one hand. He kisses her, his lips greedy for her. She slides further down his body and on top of him – oh, mmm, Roxy – only the thin fabric of her black panties separates them.

She's a sensory overload and he can't decide what to concentrate on – her lips, her fingers, the way she presses against him – he clenches his hands around her waist. "You have to get rid of these," he says, sliding a hand down her side and pulling on her panties.

She smiles devilishly and rocks her hips against him. He closes his eyes – "Oh, god, Roxy," – two to one: Roxy – but then she stops. He opens his eyes – why is she stopping – what did he do – his chest rises and falls as he tries to catch his breath.

She pries his left hand from her hip. He starts to ask what she's doing but he isn't sure he can say anything coherently. Her hair is messy and he watches a bead of sweat roll down her neck. He starts to pull his hand away and she gives him a stern look, one eyebrow raised.

He relents and she raises his hand towards her face, scrunching her forehead for a moment before jabbing a button on his watch. "Ah-ha," she mumbles in triumph. The screen crackles to life. Boy, he hopes she doesn't press the wrong button.

"Eighty-six," she says before jabbing two buttons to activate the protocol and another to turn the screen off. If Dubbie gets this message – stop thinking – naked Roxy Wasserman on Dubbie's watch!? – Roxy drops his arm and traces his lips with a finger.

"You know way too much about my job," he mumbles before she presses her lips to his. Forget Ida giving him a hard time, he'll never hear the end of it if – stop thinking –

Stop thinking and enjoy this, he reminds himself.

* * *

She's quiet, her head resting against his chest. He strokes her hair absent-mindedly with one hand. He doesn't expect this moment to last long, bodies pressed together, arms wrapped around each other. He wishes he could convince her to change her mind on their arrangement. She's so beautiful. She deserves so much more than what she settles for. "Do you know how amazing you are?"

She grins. A thousand-watt smile spreads across her face, a smile she must save for special occasions. He thinks it's funny how she's usually got a scowl on her face when it doesn't take much to make her smile. "You're pretty good for a girl's self-esteem."

"I'm serious, Rox." He kisses her lightly, as delicately as she'll let him. She murmurs contently against his lips before nestling closer to him. He runs his finger across her back, tracing her spine. He touches the notches at her hipbone and the places where her ribs poke. He doesn't remember her being this thin.

He can't believe he's lasted this long without seeing her, touching her, tasting her. He doesn't know how to be content with their intermittent rendezvous in offices, cars, and cheap motels. Each time they part, he misses her more than before. She's right beside him and he's already missing her, dreading the moment she kicks him out.

"Roxy…" His voice trails off as he feels her body tense. She already knows what he's going to say.

"Please don't." The usual hard edge in her voice is gone and the pleading soft voice replacing it breaks his heart. She starts to unravel herself from his arms but he holds her tighter. Maybe if he holds her tight enough, the moment can last. Maybe if he doesn't say another word, he won't ruin what they have. Maybe they can just stay here forever, caught in this hazy twilight, safe in the silence together.

He touches her cheek cautiously – maybe if he doesn't make any sudden movements, he won't scare her away. She closes her eyes as his fingertips trace her face, her body slowly relaxing against him. He doesn't think he could leave now. A few more minutes with her wouldn't be enough time. "It's getting late," she says without moving. A lifetime wouldn't be enough time.

His stomach growls and he recalls skipping dinner to come to her office. He wonders how far he can stretch this, how far he can push her out of her comfort zone. "Why don't you let buy you dinner?" he ventures.

"I'm not hungry." The tiled floor is cold against his back and one of his arms is numb but nothing short of an A-bomb could convince him move right now. She shivers and he instinctively pulls her tighter.

He rolls the dice again. "Breakfast, then." It would be nice to fall asleep in a bed with her and wake up nuzzled together in a cocoon of blankets. She doesn't respond.

Her breath is steady and her eyes are still shut. He wonders if she's considering his offer or if she's thinking of an excuse to usher him out of her office. Maybe she's fallen asleep.

He wonders what would happen if they did fall asleep together here on the floor. Would they sleep all night or would she wake up around three in the morning and give him the boot? How would her employees react to finding them together, clothes strewn about the room, curled together naked on the floor? He decides he doesn't care about any of the details, so long as this moment lasts.

"M.M., you really need to go," she finally says after a long silence, but she makes no effort to move.

"Or…" He wonders what the magical words are. "I could stay."

She looks glances up at him with those big blue eyes, a small smile playing across her lips. "Naked on the floor of my office? Hardly." She still doesn't move away from him and he takes it as a good sign. He touches the small freckles on her arm. He had memorized the location of each one and sure enough, they're all still there.

"I'm sure you have a bed somewhere, Rox."

The moment is ruined. She shakes her head and rolls off him, disentangling from his hold as she sits up. "You need to get moving," she says. "I'm going to go take a shower and when I come back in, you should be gone." She picks up his boxers and undershirt and throws them to him.

"I could use a shower, too."

"Then you better hurry home."

He shakes his head and gets up, pulling on his underclothes carefully. "You're cold, Roxy." She folds her arms across her naked chest, leaning against the wall as she watches him get dressed.

He loves how comfortable she is in her skin. With other women he's dated – not that he can compare this to 'dating' and not that there have been many 'other women' – there was always an element of self-consciousness, bedroom lights that had to be off, sheets covering them the moment things were done. But with her, there's none of that baggage. She's just Roxy in every inch of her body, unapologetically.

He pulls his pants on and walks over to her. Before she can argue with him, he kisses her. He wishes he could tell her everything with a kiss, wishes his lips against hers would be enough to convince her that he would take care of her and make sure she was never unhappy again. She's a gift and she completely underestimates her value. He skims his fingers on her waist as he breaks the kiss.

He could get lost in those eyes if she'd let him. She looks down at the floor but he cups her chin in one head, making eye contact unavoidable. She's so comfortable with being naked around him but she panics at the slightest hint of intimacy. Another whisper of a kiss passes between them. "Call me if you change your mind."

They both know she won't.


End file.
